


Spy in the House of the Night

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Dubious Consent, False Identity, M/M, Seduction, Spies & Secret Agents, secondary Tarn/Skids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-01-17 15:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Mirage goes undercover to infiltrate the Decepticon Conclave and sets his sights on the most dangerous game of all:  the commander of Megatron's newly created Decepticon Justice Division.
Relationships: Mirage/Tarn
Comments: 76
Kudos: 154





	1. Mandatory Fun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Decepticonsensual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/gifts).

> Consent discussion: this is a story about false identities and the murky ethics of the world of spycraft. Mirage doesn't know "Tarn" is Damus, and he's undercover and using a false identity of his own.
> 
> Generally speaking, a person can't give consent when they are being lied to about the true identity of the person they're about to sleep with. 
> 
> I went with "dubious" consent for this story instead of "non con" because this is a spy story about a villain with a magical voice, which probably doesn't contain lessons for real-life relationships unless you're the FBI agent who monitors my computer and/or a mermaid. Mirage knows "Tarn" is a false identity and chooses to seduce him anyway; and Tarn's fully down to seduce "Citanes" whether or not he's Mirage. So since both parties expect the other to be hiding the truth, and seduce one another because of it, it didn't seem to count as noncon.
> 
> Tarn’s voice used for seduction, though persuasive, isn’t absolute. I don’t think it would work on someone who didn’t feel sexual attraction, and I think that if someone truly wasn’t interested, they could still refuse. I also think that it would be possible for a mech to be tempted but still say no—Tarn can’t make you cheat on your significant other if you really don’t want to, for example, regardless of whether or not you’re turned on. 
> 
> In short, Tarn’s voice arouses you if you’re capable of being aroused, but you’re still responsible for your own actions. 
> 
> On the other hand, Mirage isn’t aware of how Tarn’s voice is influencing his feelings, so he’s thinking he’s getting turned on all on his own, which isn’t true—and Tarn is hiding this truth from him. So there's also an argument that this is not informed consent.
> 
> *
> 
> Continuity discussion: this will eventually become part of the "Chains of Grindcore" series, set (of course) after Skids escapes Tarn's clutches. Until I figure out how much is left in that arc, I'm posting this as a standalone for now. And there's no need to read that series to understand the events of this story.
> 
> *
> 
> Title and various chapter titles taken from "Spy in the House of the Night" by Blue Oyster Cult.
> 
> *

Spy in the House of the Night

Chapter One: Mandatory Fun 

The Decepticon Conclave should have been a good time. 

Damus of…well, he supposed he was just _Tarn_, now. He’d felt so proud to stand up in front of the other Decepticon commanders as Megatron formally announced the creation of the Decepticon Justice Division. He’d never forget the approving smile on Megatron’s lips as he’d raised his glass and led the Decepticons in a toast: “To the Decepticon Justice Division!” 

But when the formal meeting had ended, Tarn’s hopes had come crashing down. 

He’d spent the rest of the meeting struggling to concentrate and trying his best not to stare at the strong arch of Megatron’s nose, or the firm jut of Megatron’s chin, or the passionate fire of Megatron’s optics. He’d tried to keep control of his fantasies, but he practically vibrated with anticipation of what Megatron might do when the other Decepticons were dismissed, when the night stretched before them with nothing on the agenda but some well-deserved entertainment. 

What Megatron actually did was grab Starscream by the hand and haul him off into a private office. From the sounds Tarn had heard as he’d lingered in the hall, his first impression had been mistaken. Starscream was not getting a scolding. 

When Tarn had figured out what was actually going on in there, he’d fled the hallway with his spark in his throat and a deep, aching hollowness in his chest. 

This was the sort of occasion when Tarn had most appreciated Skids’s company. After he’d talked himself down from his emotional outburst and accepted that he needed to do more to win Megatron’s approval. That he wasn’t worthy of his Lord’s affection yet, but he _could _be, if he worked a little harder to become the mech that Megatron wanted, _needed_, him to be. Instead of berating himself for being a worthless sack of slag, he would be better off taking a good hard look at his shortcomings and making a plan to improve himself. 

He’d already come up with a solution. The first few missions of the newly formed Decepticon Justice Division had focused on obvious troublemakers. A serial killer who took his victims from among his own ranks. A slaver who’d sold newly created MTOs into bondage on alien worlds. A turncoat who’d defected to the Autobots. Those mechs had all been scum, and yet, the DJD did not yet meet the breadth and depth of Megatron’s vision. The average Decepticon already disavowed these types of behaviour. The DJD had not yet done more than the Cobalt Sentries, or any other ordinary police force, would do. 

The average Decepticon already viewed the murderer, the slaver and the defector as grotesque abnormalities. The DJD had to be more than a janitorial service for taking out the trash. Megatron wanted the DJD to inspire every Decepticon to take stock of his own shortcomings. They were a mobile court for those who broke the _spirit _of the law, and not merely the letter. 

For example, there was a warlord who was rapidly becoming a thorn in Megatron’s side. Darkmount considered himself a philosopher, and he’d tried to draw Megatron into public debate several times during the course of the Conclave. But Megatron was the Emperor and Supreme Commander of the Decepticons. It was one thing to discuss the merits of different strategies behind closed doors and quite another to challenge the Emperor in public. Darkmount’s antics were becoming fractious, and Megatron was certain that it was deliberate. The lower ranks were muttering about divided loyalties in High Command, and the mid-level commanders were becoming anxious, afraid to listen to Darkmount’s directions for fear they would contradict Megatron’s. Megatron wanted the DJD to solve the Darkmount problem, both to restore unity to High Command and to show the rank and file that ordinary Decepticons could fall into transgression if they did not consider the consequences of their actions. Now, it was Tarn’s mission. 

Skids would have helped Tarn think of the best way to deal with Darkmount. But Skids wasn’t here. Skids was gone, back to the Autobots, and Tarn hadn’t been able to get any word on what had happened to him since. 

Perhaps the Autobots had imprisoned him for the services he’d rendered to Tarn during his captivity. They might even have executed him. Tarn had made absolutely certain to render Skids complicit in the atrocities that took place in Grindcore. 

Skids would be better off dead than using his brilliant mind against the Cause. Tarn knew Megatron would agree. 

Yet Tarn hoped that Skids was alive, and that he was happy, wherever he was. 

Treachery was such a pernicious thing. It lived even in the spark of the Commander of the DJD. 

If Tarn could not stamp it out, perhaps he could starve it. He vowed not to think of Skids any longer. It was his own fault, really, for becoming so attached to an Autobot who could only ever be a prisoner. Not truly a lover, after all. 

His first and foremost love was, had to be, Megatron. 

Except that Megatron was otherwise occupied with Starscream, and this line of thinking had come full circle, leaving Tarn wandering through the hallways alone, hating himself. 

Tarn could hear the pulse of a driving beat echoing from downstairs. Belatedly, he remembered that High Command had put on some kind of entertainment for the mid-level commanders. 

The music really wasn’t to Tarn’s taste, but he had to admit it didn’t sound bad for what it was: the kind of tune designed for mechs to dance to. Not the kind of dancing that Tarn had trained in during his theatre days, but that sort of artless, instinctive, primitive motion that any mech could do with a little effort. Tarn would not be trying that. If one was going to dance, one ought to do it right or not bother at all. 

It would probably not do for the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division to be seen dancing with the ranks, anyway. He was no longer one of the team, as it were. He and his men were going to stand apart, above the other Decepticons, looking down on them and judging them. Tarn would need to act the part. 

He could act the part from a table against the wall, nursing a drink or two. He could practice observing his fellow Decepticons. The DJD would be more effective if the Decepticons felt that they were always being watched. 

Yes. Warming up to his new role might be just the thing to take his mind off…all those things that he didn’t want to think about. 


	2. The Ins and Outs of Smoke

Chapter Two: The Ins and Outs of Smoke 

Tarn ignored the bartender’s question about his mask as he accepted an empty glass. Before long, the lower ranks would be too frightened to dare ask such a question of him. Right now, though, scolding the bartender would only make him look overly sensitive. It would be his deeds, not his words, that would put the fear into them. 

He set the glass down on the bar and filled it himself from a flask he kept in his subspace pocket. He had no interest in the cheap swill on offer at the open bar. He added his own straw to the glass and then made his way along the edge of the crowded dance floor to an empty booth in the back of the room. It was hard to see clearly in the dimness illuminated by random flashes of rainbow light. 

Tarn took his seat and sipped his drink, staring out across the crowded dance floor, identifying each individual and cross-referencing them with Banzai-Tron’s files. 

Suddenly, the main doors swung open, emitting a spill of light from the corridor outside. A figure stood in the middle, silhouetted by four sleek frames on either side of him. The DJ cut the music, and a moment later, his voice echoed over the speakers: “And here’s Darkmount! Throw up your hands: this party is now officially started!” 

Tarn leaned forward, narrowing his optics. The DJ swung a spotlight on Darkmount and his guests. 

More newcomers filed in behind Darkmount. Some of them were jets, and some of them were sports cars, but all of them were astonishingly pretty. 

Tarn was well versed in this custom. It had been commonplace in the theatre in Vos. The rich and the powerful didn’t always keep their own company. The rich found novelty in the lower classes, and there was always a fresh supply to choose from. An attractive mech could use his looks to buy admission to places that usually denied admittance to the poor and powerless. The attractive, clever and lucky might even figure out a way to make their admission permanent. 

Tarn remembered how much it had goaded him. He had been more talented than many of his colleagues—a better dancer, a much better actor, an infinitely better singer—yet he’d lost roles time and time again to mechs who were _prettier_. 

Or who had used their looks…and _other_ “talents”…to gain the patronage of a supporter powerful enough to pull strings on their behalf. 

Tarn glowered at the new arrivals, wondering if the fresh meat was made up of wide-eyed MTOs starstruck over being invited to a commanders’ gala, or more experienced mechs who knew exactly how to trade for what they wanted. Or, possibly, professional courtesans. 

Then Tarn’s gaze fell on a familiar figure. 

Cold-constructed mechanisms had been built in batches and factory runs, even before the war. It was why there were thousands of Seekers out there, each one the same under the paint. The Forged tended towards more unique designs. Cold-constructed mechs who came into a little money often underwent cosmetic procedures to alter their frames ever so slightly from those of the rest of their batch. 

Tarn let his optics travel over sleek flanks, a streamlined chest, an aristocratic nose. 

Mirage of Vos had always been one of a kind. 

This mechanism was painted differently: bright coral and warm grey, nothing at all like Mirage’s colour scheme of cool whites and blues. The coral was much too flashy for the Mirage Tarn knew. Garish, that Mirage would have said. 

Tarn narrowed his optics. Could some designer have built a line of MTOs to mimic Mirage of Vos? Knock offs in the truest sense of the word? He wondered if Mirage would be insulted or flattered. 

Surely they couldn’t have duplicated Mirage’s unique talent. For Mirage was an Outlier, a mech whose talent took stealth to a whole other level. Ravage, for example, relied on light-absorbing paint and silent motion and radar scramblers to make himself less noticeable. Mirage, on the other hand, could literally become invisible. 

Mirage had never shut up about what a curse it was, either. How hard it was for his life of wealthy leisure to be spoiled by Functionists trying to penalize him for being a freak. As if certain other people hadn’t worked hard all their lives to achieve even a modicum of success, only to have it stripped away from them along with their hands and their faces. Mirage’s talent didn’t even hurt him when he used it. 

At any rate, Mirage had latched onto Senator Shockwave, and often served as the Senator’s date to state functions. He’d even managed to hold onto one of his luxury homes until the middle of the war. And he’d always…always…looked down his aristocratic nose at poor little Glitch, ugly, mutiliated, struggling to control a truly monstrous talent. 

What had Mirage called him? 

A _pretender_. 

A mech who pretended to love the classics and dreamed of acting on the stage because he thought it would make him better than what he really was: a no-account courier from Tarn. A nobody, a _nothing_, with no history and no future. Not like Mirage, the Primus-assigned rightful heir to an ancient Vosian house. 

What would Mirage think if he could see Damus of Tarn now? Wearing a strong and handsome frame that could crush Mirage’s throat in one hand. Bearing a rank that meant that Tarn would not have to dirty his hands with such an action if he did not want to: he could order his subordinates to do it for him, if he so chose. 

Tarn would have to ask Megatron if the DJD’s mandate could be expanded to include the extermination of particularly noxious Autobots. 

Tarn watched the Mirage lookalike as he began to dance. The new arrivals had made their way across the dance floor, smiling and flirting with the Decepticon commanders. Most of them were happy to hang off of the first mech who showed them any attention. Mirage, on the other hand, was a tease. He flitted from one admirer to another, his optics scanning the room relentlessly… 

Tarn felt the back of his neck prickle. This couldn’t possibly be Mirage. Mirage had little love for the Autobots, but he would never stoop to becoming a Decepticon. He’d said so often that Decepticons were crude, stupid brutes. Intelligent enough to recognize the cruelty of the Functionists but not intelligent enough to do anything about it save throwing punches and rallying behind a leader who promised to give them power. He’d called Glitch an idiot for even expressing curiosity about Megatron’s writings, let alone actually reading them. 

If Mirage had changed his mind…then what? Could Tarn forgive Mirage for his bullying if it turned out that Mirage had given Megatron’s writing a chance and, like Damus, had his entire life changed? 

What could Megatron have written that could have changed the heart of a mech who’d had every advantage in society—who would have thrived under the Functionists if only he’d kept his talent hidden? 

Insight burst upon Tarn like the gravity hole of a dark star. 

What would have become of Mirage once the war began: once Decepticonism became an army, rather than a movement? The previous government had been taken over by the Autobots, who purported to be reformers. Who thought they could salvage a system that had been built on oppression. 

Glitch had already been a secret Decepticon, then. It had been his idea to take in the shadowplayed Senator Shockwave. Shockwave’s brilliant mind could be put to use for the Cause. And Glitch was not ashamed to have a certain degree of affection for the mech who’d picked him up out of the gutters and given him a home in the Outliers Academy. It was right to return the favour. 

But the rest of the Outliers Academy… 

Skids had told Tarn exactly what had become of them. Orion Pax—Optimus Prime—had drafted them into the Autobot military. Put them into a Special Operations division. Given command of that division to Prowl. 

Mirage had been among them. He had been, according to Skids, a most reluctant soldier. 

On the other hand, what had been Mirage’s great joys in life? Wealth and self-indulgence. There was plenty of both on display here at the Decepticon Conclave. Many members of Decepticon command enjoyed revelling in the luxuries they’d been denied in their previous lives. 

It made sense that Prowl would want to sneak in an Autobot operative. 

A _spy_. 


	3. The Flip Side of Desire

Chapter Three: The Flip Side of Desire 

Tarn had his comm link in hand, ready to send a message to Garboil, the Cobalt Sentry operative in charge of Security for the Conclave, when he had second thoughts. He would look a right fool if he messaged Garboil about an “Autobot spy” who turned out to be nothing but a Decepticon knockoff who’d come into a little money. 

Even if there had been no factory run of Mirage lookalikes, cold constructed bots often selected cosmetic upgrades to make them look like the sort of people they wanted to become. In this case, perhaps the mech’s idea of _wealthy, classy, and influential _looked like Mirage of Vos. Tarn could sympathize. The face he wore underneath his mask wasn’t an accurate re-creation of his original face at all. The face he now wore was a design heavily influenced by Megatron, changed just enough that it wasn’t an obvious duplication. 

_ We make ourselves look like who we want to be, and we play the role until it becomes our truth. _

Right now, Tarn was playing the part of a powerful, ominous, all-seeing leader of a specially selected Justice Division. If he told Garboil that the Conclave had been infiltrated by an Autobot spy and it turned out to be some foolish MTO with delusions of grandeur, Tarn would bungle his own role. Nobody would believe that the commander of the DJD was ominous or all-seeing if he made gaffes like that. 

No, Tarn had to make absolutely certain that this mech was Mirage before he did anything. 

But once he knew for sure… Why, he was the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, wasn’t he? Technically, he outranked Garboil, even though he wasn’t a Cobalt Sentry. It would be up to him to decide if he needed the Cobalt Sentries’ help. 

Tarn put the comm link away and made a note to himself to acquire some sort of investigative capacity for his unit. A military police operative, or a security specialist. He couldn’t depend on other units to tell him who needed the DJD’s justice. Only Megatron could do that. The rest of the time, Tarn and his people would need the ability to investigate their own targets. 

He raised his goblet and sipped at it, watching the coral speedster as he deftly extricated himself from Borebit’s wandering hands and twirled himself into the arms of a very surprised Thunderwing. Whatever Thunderwing said to him sparked a short conversation, but as soon as Thunderwing’s body language became flirtatious, the coral speedster was off again. 

Mid-dance, the speedster turned his head towards the corner. His lapis-blue optics locked with Tarn’s gaze. 

Tarn inhaled sharply, uncertain of what to do. But, as had often happened to him on the stage, it was as though the character he played took over his frame. 

He raised the hand that wasn’t holding his drink and made a beckoning gesture. 

The speedster’s lips parted in a smile. He returned the gesture and shimmied his body. _ No. You come join me. Don’t you want to dance with me? Don’t you want to touch me while I move? _

He was very pretty. Tarn realized that he might not mind touching that streamlined frame. Little Glitch could never have pulled a mech like that, but he wasn’t Glitch any more, was he? He was a very striking-looking tank with a face like Lord Megatron’s under a mask that gave him an air of mystery. 

But he could not come to Mirage’s call. The Commander of the Decepticon Justice Division was not the kind of person who obeyed the orders of another. He obeyed Megatron, and Megatron alone. 

All others obeyed him. 

Tarn repeated the gesture. _Come to me_. 

The dancer hesitated, missing the beat. He stared at Tarn. Tarn held perfectly still, optics locked with the speedster. 

And then the speedster took a step forward. 

Tarn felt a moment of internal panic when he realized the pretty mech was coming his way. He had no idea what to do! His concept of flirting was drawn from romance novels and movies. He had no idea how much of it was realistic and how much was the sort of exaggeration that made fiction larger-than-life. 

Yet strangely he felt a sense of calm rising up inside him. It was as though his new persona had reached out to reassure him that everything was under control. 

Yes. That was the sort of person that “Tarn” would be. Someone who always had a firm grip on the reins of events. Someone who knew how to bend those events to his will. 

Someone who could also bend _people _to his will. 

“Don’t you want to join me?” the speedster said as he swaggered up to Tarn’s table. 

“I’m afraid this isn’t my sort of dancing music,” Tarn purred back. Inspiration lanced through his mind, hot and sharp and bright. “Do you think this DJ might have a squadra in his repertoire?” 

Because Mirage had learned all the classical steps: the dostro, the squadra, the etillante. Even in the Outliers Academy, Mirage had loved to dance. Glitch remembered sitting in a chair against the wall, watching Mirage and Skids skim across the dance floor like poetry in motion. 

Glitch had learned all the steps during his time with the Vosian theatre, but Mirage had not deigned to dance with him. Touch, Mirage had said, was crucial to the art form. Mirage would not lower himself to dancing with someone who he dared not touch. Not even if they both had protective gloves on. 

Instead, Mirage had decided to teach Skids, and Skids, the superlearner, had lapped it all up. Glitch remembered watching them, hating Mirage for being so unkind and wishing that Skids would look at him the way he was looking at Mirage. 

Of course it had worked out nicely in the end. Tarn remembered pushing all his furniture against the walls in his office at Grindcore, and blasting classical etillantes over the public address system while the smelting pool did its work. Dancing cheek to cheek with Skids while the newest batch of Autobot prisoners were reduced to liquid sentio metallico and slag. 

Except that now, Skids was lost to him. 

_But Mirage was here._

And Tarn’s brilliant inspiration cast a dark, dark shadow, filled with the promise of a cruel satisfaction. 


	4. White-Hot Dark-Black Rendezvous

Chapter Four: White-Hot Dark-Black Rendezvous

Tarn had picked the squadra on purpose. It, and the dostro, were the dances he knew best. But Mirage was an absolute master of the dostro, while the speedster struggled a bit with the squadra. If Tarn was going to dance with Mirage, he wanted to know for a fact that he would be the stronger dancer. 

The speedster’s optics widened. “You know the squadra?” he asked. His voice betrayed his excitement.

Oh, and it betrayed other things as well. Because it was much less likely that a cold constructed mechanism would alter his voice as well as his frame. Because Damus of Tarn had been a singer and he noticed things like pitch and volume and diction the way other mechs noticed things like alt mode and colour. The odds of this mechanism being Mirage of Vos had risen significantly.

Still, Tarn wasn’t about to commit murder based on similarities between this mech’s voice and the recollections in Tarn’s memory banks. He was not enthused about the idea of a mnemosurgeon downloading those memories to prove, at a tribunal, that Mirage’s execution had been justified and not merely an example of the new DJD abusing their power over the Decepticon rank and file.

Though, he supposed, if he killed this mech and it turned out _not _to be Mirage, all he’d need to do would be to find—or plant—some evidence to show that the speedster deserved the DJD’s judgment.

He could pursue this line of thinking a little later. For now, Tarn had a pretty car to dance with. 

Who knew what else they might do before the night was done?

Tarn almost felt badly for an instant. Like he was cheating, though he didn’t know who he was supposed to be cheating on: Megatron, or Skids? 

Megatron was with Starscream now. If Megatron could do it, so could he.

And Skids…

_That was never a relationship. Not really. That was warden and prisoner, master and slave, dressed up in the trappings of lovers._

Whatever it had been, it was _over_. Lost to him. Tarn could spend the rest of his life mourning, or he could learn live a little and move on.

He felt as though he’d already spent so much of his life waiting. His time was now. He was going to take it.

“I do,” Tarn replied smoothly. “From your reaction I take it that you are also familiar?”

The speedster’s optics illuminated with a tiny blue light of surprise that might have also been panic. Panic, because a Decepticon MTO was unlikely to know an ancient classical dance from the era of the Primes.

“It’s a hobby of mine,” the mech stammered. He broke optic contact, as though ashamed. “My colleagues think it’s odd.”

“I suppose it would look odd to see you dancing by yourself.” He stretched his hand out, palm up. “Shall we show them how it’s properly done?”

Mirage turned his optics up to Tarn with an expression of pleading hope.

Tarn, smiling under his mask, put in a request to the DJ. Then he rose to his feet, sliding out of the booth to join Mirage in front of the table. “I wonder how long it will take this incessant noise to end,” Tarn said, indicating the current song with a wave of his hand. He sipped on his beverage, and an idea occurred to him. “Would you like a drink out of my private reserve? It’s Macaalex Platinum.”

Mirage’s optics lit with interest. Tarn quoted the vintage year—pre-war—and swore he saw Mirage salivating.

There really was an art to baiting a hook. Mechs who’d never stand still and permit you to dig your hook into them, would swallow that same hook with enthusiasm if it came wrapped in something they wanted. Something they _craved_. For Skids, the bait had been intellectual challenge and praise. For Mirage, the bait was nostalgia: to taste, once again, the delights of Old Cybertron. Everything the war had taken away from him. 

Tarn made a note that the effort spent researching his victims…er, targets…would be more than worthwhile. Any idiot could brutalize someone into compliance. True mastery came from getting inside their heads and using their own unique personal quirks against them.

The Decepticon Justice Division’s worst punishments should be _customized_.

To Mirage’s credit, his voice was steady when he drew himself up and said coolly, “I think I’d like that very much.” Only a quaver in the tone of his voice betrayed the fact that he was gagging for a taste.

Of course he was. This vintage was very good, very expensive, and very rare. Mirage’s money—however much he still had to his own name, however much hadn’t been forcibly donated to the Autobots’ war chest—couldn’t buy something that couldn’t be found. Tarn was fortunate. There were a few mechs among the Decepticons who knew quality when they saw it. Who had perfected the art of selective pillage. Tarn knew their communication codes very well indeed. He thought he might save the black marketeers for the very bottom of his list of people to punish. They were _useful_.

Mirage looked back over his shoulder. “I’ll go to the bar for a glass.”

Tarn wasn’t inclined to let the speedster out of his reach. “No need.” Since he’d started wearing the mask, he’d always carried extra straws on his person. He didn’t want to risk having to choose between going hungry and revealing more than he wanted to reveal. Tarn had a stash of straws in his subspace pocket for just such an occasion, all stored neatly in a stylish metal case. He withdrew that case now, selected a straw, dropped it artfully into his goblet, and held the glass out to Mirage.

Mirage looked startled, but he wrapped his lips around the tip of the straw and hollowed his cheeks. A moment later, his optics dimmed in a look of enraptured bliss. It was all rather erotic, really…

Dark revelation almost eclipsed Tarn’s thoughts. What would Mirage look like, splayed out all over his berth?

Glitch had never had a crush on Mirage, the way he had on Skids. Glitch wanted to _be _Mirage: the poise, the wealth, the status. He had never thought of intimacy with Mirage. Mirage would never stoop so low. Glitch had enough degradation in his day to day life that he didn’t want it in his hypothetical love life either.

Glitch had never thought about reversing that degradation.

What would it be like to have Mirage begging for his spike? To use Mirage of Vos like a common buymech? 

Tarn thought it might feel very much like _justice_. 


	5. It Might As Well Be Me

Chapter Five: It Might As Well Be Me 

Luck was favouring Mirage of Vos tonight. Mirage knew that luck was as fickle as the spin of a roulette wheel, as ephemeral as smoke. At any minute his luck could change. Yet Mirage could not overlook the opportunity before him. 

Megatron had placed such emphasis on this new unit he’d created. This _Decepticon Justice Division_. Prowl wanted to know what the new unit was for. The Decepticons already had military tribunals, Barricade’s police force, and the Cobalt Sentries. How was this unit any different? 

For the Outliers, there was an additional reason. A _personal _ reason. 

The Skids they’d gotten back from Grindcore wasn’t the Skids they’d known. 

How had the brilliant, charming, social mech with the easy laugh and the pure delight in life turned into the brooding, grim, withdrawn person he was today? How had Skids survived two million years of war, if not unmarked—they were all marked, to some degree—but at least with his baseline personality intact, only to have it utterly eclipsed in a matter of centuries? Was it Grindcore that had done it, or had Grindcore’s Commandant been the architect behind Skids’s reconstruction? 

The Commandant—the leader of the new DJD. 

Prowl didn’t know who he was. The mech had gone by his rank, not his name, during his tenure at Grindcore. Now he was calling himself Tarn, and he’d assigned similar code names to his subordinates: Kaon, Vos, and Helex. 

The very secrecy made Special Operations curious. What did Tarn have to hide? 

The rumour was that Megatron had ordered the creation of the DJD—that they were bespoke made to order soldiers. Mirage was skeptical. Surely it wasn’t something so boring as Tarn being a MTO with _no_ prior history, putting on an act of secrecy to hide his lack of prior experience. 

Mirage would be very pleased to find out for certain. 

It was just his luck that of all the Decepticons in this hall tonight, Tarn had been the one to take an interest in him. Mirage supposed he _was _beautiful, even if this coral paint was somewhat garish. Still, he was supposed to pretend to be a Decepticon MTO called Citanes, and it wouldn’t do to be too much like his true self, but at least he was able to be fashionable as long as he made it different enough from his regular look. Coral was very trendy these days, but Mirage generally preferred the classics, which never went out of style. 

He’d been surprised to discover that this Tarn fellow also seemed to have an appreciation for the classics and the finer things in life. 

Dancing the squadra? Mirage hadn’t danced it since Skids went missing in action. It wasn’t that easy to find a partner who knew the step and was any good at it. Skids had not been in a mood for dancing since he’d come back from Grindcore. 

Mirage’s eagerness had betrayed the fact that his cover persona, a Decepticon MTO, ought not to know such a dance. He’d thought quickly and come up with a convincing lie. His new cover persona was going to be a bit of a classics nerd. If none of the other Decepticon MTOs recognized him, well, it was because he spent most of his spare time researching, and he was only in the club tonight because Darkmount had been so insistent… 

Darkmount. The commander so interested in procuring a harem of beautiful mechs that he hadn’t bothered to perform security checks. Mirage was much happier to work his wiles on Tarn, rather than on that foolish lout. Darkmount would be too easy to be any kind of a challenge. Tarn was going to be interesting. 

Yet something gave Mirage pause. 

Tarn was very…_persuasive_. Mirage had intended to eschew intoxicants tonight. He didn’t want to risk some Decepticon slipping something into his drink, nor did he want to become too overenergized to do his job. But when Tarn had offered his goblet, Mirage had intended to say no, and said yes instead. 

Well. Macaalex Platinum was difficult to come by. 

It was every bit as delicious as Mirage remembered. 

Moderation. That would be the key. Little sips, savour every mouthful, and keep in mind that this Decepticon required an additional level of careful handling. 

“I trust you find the engex to your satisfaction?” Tarn inquired. 

Mirage remembered his persona. “It’s _incredible_. I’d read about it, but I’d never thought to have the opportunity to taste it for myself.” 

“How delightful to share with someone who truly appreciates what I have to offer.” 

Mirage wasn’t sure what to make of that remark. Perhaps the Commandant was alluding to another associate who did not show proper appreciation. If that associate was someone who Tarn valued, this might represent an opportunity to Mirage, to meet whatever needs Tarn’s associate was failing to satisfy. 

Mirage looked Tarn over and wondered just how far he would go to satisfy whatever needs Tarn might have. 

The mech was a big ugly brute, as so many Decepticons were. There was only so much that could be done with a tank for an alt mode. Yet Tarn was not unhandsome. Unlike the cruder, lumbering manual labourers, military mechs could pull off a certain rough dignity with the proper presentation and attitude. From the way Tarn’s frame was put together, he was likely not a drill or a bulldozer converted to a tank. His body suggested that he had been born—or created—a soldier. And he carried himself like an officer. Like a mechanism made to wield authority. 

Mirage had to admit that Tarn’s frame had a certain _appeal_. Living in the Towers, Mirage had enjoyed had his fill of flightframes and speedsters. Money and good looks were a heady combination that tended to attract good looks with less money. After indulging himself to satiation on such mechs, Mirage had needed to look elsewhere for more exotic thrills. 

There was just something about being handled by a large and powerful mech who possessed both delicacy and skill… 

Mirage bit down on his lip to clear his head. He wasn’t here to indulge his fantasies. He was _working_. 

There was probably a good deal of karma at work here, too, in that he had to pretend to be one of those bubble headed gold diggers he’d so often used and discarded in the centuries before the war. 

Still, Mirage was most pleasantly surprised by this mech who called himself Tarn. Should Tarn take a notion to pursue more intimate entertainment, Mirage would not say no. 

This would be his first time seducing a Decepticon. 

But, Mirage reminded himself, far from his first time seducing a one-night companion. 

He could _do _this. Mirage was no innocent, not in terms of using his body to give and receive pleasure, and not in terms of doing so to get what he wanted. The only difference now was that he would have goals beyond indulging his own desires. He would use flirtation to get Tarn to lower his guard and he would learn things about him and his unit that he could take back to Prowl. 

There was, Mirage supposed, another difference. 

He’d be in for a lot worse than a little embarrassment and a lonely night if he got found out. 

That sobering notion would help him to keep his head tonight. 

He smiled winningly at Tarn and took another sip from the proffered goblet. 

Then the music changed. The driving beat of the dance number faded away and was replaced by the light tinkling notes of a famous classical squadra. 

“Come,” Tarn said as he placed the goblet down on the table. “I believe they’re playing our song.” 


	6. The Devil's Tune

Chapter Six: The Devil’s Tune 

_Our song_ . Mirage’s head spun as he put his hand in Tarn’s and let the Decepticon guide him onto the dance floor. 

If he played his cards right—if he spun tonight’s flirtation into an ongoing affair—this tune _would _become their song. 

It would also be Mirage’s victory march as he offered piece after piece of new information to Prowl. 

But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. This was the mech who’d allegedly put Skids through the wringer. Mirage would have to be very cautious. 

On the dance floor, Decepticons stood around at a loss. They had no idea what to do to the music that played out over the speakers. One of them dared to yell at the DJ to play some real music. 

Tarn clamped his hand over the mech’s shoulder. Tightly. Mirage saw the grimace of pain before the mech schooled his features into anger. “Hey buddy, watch the…” He fell silent as he saw two smouldering optics glaring at him through the holes of a purple mask. 

“Tell the DJ to clear the floor,” Tarn said, and was it Mirage’s imagination, or did something in Tarn’s voice sound strange? 

The Decepticon in Tarn’s grip shuddered. When Tarn released him, he hastened to obey. 

Slowly, the Decepticons moved back to the edge of the dance floor, leaving Tarn and Mirage alone in the middle. A spotlight swung overhead to illuminate them. 

Tarn held out his hands. 

Mirage assumed the traditional pose. 

They each counted three beats. 

And the dance began. 

It became obvious to Mirage very quickly that Tarn knew what he was doing. This was more than casual familiarity. Tarn moved like a master. 

At first, Mirage found himself competing, but he quickly reined himself back. _He _was supposed to possess only a casual familiarity. His persona shouldn’t be able to match a truly practiced dancer. 

Mirage wasn’t certain that he even wanted to try. To be led by a maestro of the art… 

Like the Macaalex Platinum, this was another rare indulgence that not even money could buy with any certainty in a war-torn world. 

Sometimes, Mirage thought, this job wasn’t so bad. 

Sometimes the role called for allowing himself to be swept away. 

The music ended some time later, some time that was surely longer than the handful of seconds it seemed and definitely shorter than the private eternity it had also seemed. As the last notes died away, he performed the traditional ending to the squadra: striking a pose and leaning backwards. Tarn did the same, supporting Mirage in his arms as they froze into a tableau. 

The lights went down. 

The assembled Decepticons broke out in enthusiastic but very polite applause. This uneducated audience couldn’t appreciate the artistry of the performance they’d witnessed. They clapped because Tarn’s rank compelled them to do so. 

Tarn eased Mirage back onto his feet. Mirage looked up at him as the spotlight faded and the other lights went back on. 

“Lord Tarn,” said the DJ, “would you care to choose our next piece?” 

Mirage saw the reactions of the assembled Decepticons. They clearly wanted more popular music, but they were reluctant to say so. 

“Why of course,” Tarn said. “I’d like to reward all our _loyal _ Decepticons with…” He paused for effect. “The dance remix of _Never Surrender_.” 

That had been the anthem that Megatron had used when he entered the ring for his gladiatorial battles. Mirage couldn’t imagine how one would ballroom dance to that. The assembled Decepticons, however, cheered and enthusiastically started gyrating on the dance floor as the DJ dropped the beat. 

Tarn took Mirage’s hand and tugged him away from the crowd. Off the dance floor, he put his arms around Mirage’s waist, pulled him close, and whispered in his audio, “We need to keep the peons happy, now don’t we?” 

Mirage grinned, recognizing an apology when he heard one. Duty was relentless, it seemed, even for Decepticons. 

“That doesn’t mean we need to stay here and listen to it,” Tarn added in a soft purr. There was just something about his _voice_. Mirage felt as though he could listen to him for hours. He’d certainly rather listen to Tarn than to the uncultured noise the MTO rank and file called music. 

“Where would we go?” Mirage asked. The Decepticon Conclave was taking place in the Conference Center in Tesarus, which had changed a lot since the Decepticons had taken over the city. The surrounding hotels had been transformed into barracks; the restaurants converted into mess halls; the shops used to warehouse military supplies. Most of the rest of Tesarus was in shambles, still. There was a greatly diminished shopping and entertainment district near the Grand Arena, but that was clear on the other side of the city. 

“I’m afraid there’s not much in the way of fine dining in this city,” Tarn admitted. His finger stroked the side of Mirage’s helm in a surprisingly intimate gesture. “I fear we’ll have to make it ourselves.” 

“There’s certainly no fine dining in the mess hall,” Mirage said, optics wide, knowing he was hoping for an alternate suggestion from Tarn. “At least, not the mess hall _I _use.” 

“Rest assured the officer’s mess isn’t significantly better.” Tarn’s voice changed its tone, becoming… Mirage struggled to describe it. Thicker? _Richer_. “That’s why I’m going to suggest we adjourn to my private quarters.” His optics squinted in what might be a smile under the mask. “I have a private bar, and we can play whatever music we please on my state of the art stereo system.” 

Mirage’s fuel pump accelerated. Mirage tried to tell himself it was from satisfaction at how his mission was turning out. 

It really ought to be with fear. Letting the Decepticon get him alone? Anything might happen. 

Perhaps he ought to remember that he’d been sent here to dig out all the news coming from the Decepticon Conclave. He wouldn’t be able to get his finger on the pulse of the Decepticon Army if he spent the whole night one-on-one with Tarn. 

On the other hand, Prowl wanted to know more about Tarn and his new unit. Anyone could get the dirt on the Conclave simply by logging onto the Big Conversation and posing as a Decepticon. The opportunity to pump Tarn for information was too precious to pass up. 

Yes. This was work. 

Mirage’s reaction certainly couldn’t be one of excitement. 


	7. No Church or Philosophy

Chapter Seven: No Church or Philosophy 

This was madness. Tarn’s fuel pump pounded much too quickly in his chest. He opened his vents and drank in long sips of air, which he hoped Mirage didn’t notice. 

_Are you really doing this?_

Because it was one thing to write a scene in which the handsome, dashing commander picked up a beautiful, rich speedster out for a little slumming, and quite another to actually do it in reality. The kind of lines that everyone swallowed wholesale in fiction often sounded ridiculous in real life. 

_ You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve never done this before. Your last grand seduction was on a prisoner you had locked up in a cell when you weren’t playing with him. Nervous? Tired? Not sure what to do next? Put him back in the cell, catch your breath, take him out again when you were ready. You were in total control of him. _

_ Not like this. One screw-up and Mirage bolts._

_ If this even _ is_ Mirage._

_ Don’t you dare let him bolt before you sort out whether or not he’s an Autobot spy. _

It was critical that he find out whether “Citaines” was an enemy operative. Yet his own thoughts kept trying to sabotage him. 

_ What do you think you’re going to do when you get him back to your quarters? It was all you could do to not offline his arm while you danced. _

Tarn could still feel the pain echoing in his frame. Every time he became emotional, his talent seemed to rise up in him, ready to ruin everything around him. Anxiety, delight, excitement, disgust, arousal: any of them would do it. He wasn’t sure which emotion, or combination of emotions, he’d felt while dancing with Mirage. He’d been working so hard to repress all his feelings in order to keep his talent under control. It was as though his own body punished him for feeling anything at all. 

But at least he _could _control it, these days. The sound system still played; the lights still shone. He hadn’t broken Mirage, or anyone else; he’d been able to grab that Decepticon and make him uncomfortable while still keeping enough control not to cripple him. The pain was rapidly fading into a background ache that he was able to ignore. A little more engex would make the ignoring that much easier. 

And getting away from the pulsing beat of the DJ’s sound system would definitely make a vocal seduction easier. Tarn couldn’t get a bead on the frequency of Mirage’s spark with so much background interference. He’d been trying to use his Voice, but he felt as though he was wielding a hand grenade instead of a sniper rifle. He was striking only in the rough vicinity of his target, unable to manage his usual precision. 

Once he got his Voice tuned to Mirage’s unique personal frequency, then the game would change. Then it wouldn’t matter if his scene was a little unrealistic. With any luck, Mirage would be far too revved up to care. 

Tarn put on his best smile—he knew Mirage wouldn’t be able to see it under the mask, but he also knew that his facial expressions reflected in his tone when he spoke—and held out his arm to Mirage. “Shall we?” 

Mirage hooked his arm through Tarn’s. “Let’s,” he purred. “Lead the way.” 

Oh. Tarn absolutely _would_. 

Tarn guided Mirage through the crowd, with only a quick glance over his shoulder at Darkmount, who’d commandeered a booth of his own and currently had not one but _two _Seekers on his lap, while a streamlined helicopter topped up his drink. _How gratuitious_. At least Darkmount wouldn’t be _going _anywhere. He’d live it up tonight, sleep it off tomorrow, and tomorrow evening, Tarn could step up the Decepticon Justice Division’s game with its first high-ranking vict… _target_. 

But as for this evening… 

Tarn pushed open the door and led Mirage out into the corridor, where an armoured personnel carrier and a close air support jet were making out heavily against the wall. They didn’t even seem to notice as Tarn and Mirage swept past, noses in the air, refusing to dignify the scene with so much as a comment. __

At least, not until they were out of earshot. 

“Tacky,” Tarn said, at the same time as Mirage said, “Utterly tasteless.” 

Then they looked at one another and laughed. 

Tarn was completely charmed. The laugh had been entirely natural. 

“It occurs to me,” Tarn said, “that it might also be _utterly tasteless _to take a mech home when I don’t even know his name.” 

“Oh dear, we mustn’t have that.” Mirage’s optics sparkled with amusement. “It’s Citanes of Ibex.” 

_Citanes_ . An alias? Tarn would have to check Banzai-Tron’s files. Later. 

“Tarn. Charmed.” 

“Tarn,” Mirage repeated. “_What _of Tarn?” 

“Oh, it’s not where I’m really from,” Tarn said casually. “It’s a code name that Megatron gave me.” 

Tarn was, in fact, where Damus was really from. Not that he hadn’t tried to hide the fact. He’d worked so hard to cultivate a Vosian accent and pick up the mannerisms and culture of the neighbouring city-state. But he wasn’t about to admit to Mirage that he was a Tarnian by birth. 

“Then tell me if it’s _tacky _to go home with a mech when all you know is his code name,” Mirage murmured, stroking his hand along Tarn’s forearm. 

“Let me tell you a little more, then,” Tarn countered. “That code name was given to me by Lord Megatron himself, and it’s my honour to use it, as the leader of his new Justice Division. The person I used to be might as well be dead.” 

“You’re not angry that Megatron erased your old name?” Mirage asked. “Not even a little bitter?” 

“Not at all,” Tarn replied smoothly. “It’s my pleasure to play such a key role in Megatron’s master plan. As, I think, it would be for all _good _Decepticons.” 

Mirage stroked his chin. “And yet… Sir, I don’t disagree with you, but I know a number of my batch mates who have latched on to Megatron’s early writings about self-determination, the rights of the individual, and the atrocities of a society that values conformity over independence. To me, such a manifesto seems incompatible with the circumstances of our creation. I struggle to reconcile the concept of individual freedom with complete subjugation to Megatron’s will.” 

“So when you hear _peace through tyranny_, you focus on the _tyranny_, having lost sight of the _peace_.” 

Mirage’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand?” 

“The final goal of the Decepticon movement is lasting peace on Cybertron. No war. No alien aggression from outside. No internal discontent. You would like to live in such a world, would you not?” 

“Of course.” 

“And you wear that badge because you wish to work towards such a world. Correct?” Tarn gestured to the purple insignia on Mirage’s shoulder. 

“That’s right.” 

“And if the price of winning that peace was to choose, of your own free will, to play the role that Megatron gives you, then you would do it, and do it gladly. Yes?” 

“Yes,” Mirage admitted. 

“As would I,” Tarn explained. “So, in order to achieve that peace, I have accepted the task and the name that Megatron has given me, and I wear that name with pride, in the name of the Cause and the glorious future that we will bring to pass.” 

“I never thought of it that way,” Mirage said. “You’re saying that Decepticons’ free will should be to choose for ourselves to carry out Megatron’s vision.” 

“It’s the only logical choice. The only _moral _choice. Otherwise we end up back where we started, in an imperfect system, plagued with dissention from within, making ourselves vulnerable to the predations of organics who wish us ill. Who call us soulless machines and treat us accordingly.” 

“Quite right. I’m not certain whether to apologize for such a heavy topic of conversation, or to thank you for the edification.” 

“Oh, no apology needed. This conversation has pointed out to me that mechs like you and your batch mates are clearly not receiving sufficient education. That perspective only reinforces Megatron’s wisdom in creating the Decepticon Justice Division.” 

“I’ve been curious about that,” Mirage said. “We already have Barricade’s police to keep law and order among the population in Decepticon-held territories. We have the Cobalt Sentries to address criminal acts by Autobots and Autobot collaborators. And our military disciplines its soldiers in-house. I’m not sure what your team _does_, exactly.” 

Tarn beamed. “Why, _Citanes_,” he purred, “my team is to provide _precisely _the sort of education mechs like your batch mates so sorely need.” 


	8. Spy in the House

Mirage was not sure what to make of Tarn’s admission. The role of the Decepticon Justice Division was _education_? 

Fortunately, MTOs like “Citanes” were generally assumed to be ignorant. No wonder—the Decepticons barely took the time to teach them what end of the gun to point at the enemy. The Autobots didn’t always have a lot of time for training their own MTOs, but at least they tried to provide a rudimentary education when circumstances allowed, while the Decepticons rarely bothered doing more than chucking a copy of _Towards Peace _ into each barracks, where it was often used as a door stop. So it was entirely in character for “Citanes” to turn his big shining optics on Tarn and say breathily, “I don’t understand?” 

“There are so many mechanisms—on _both _sides of the war—suffering from, shall we say, the frailties of metal. Our sparks are divine, but our bodies and mines are all too prone to rust. While any good Decepticon _would _place the Cause first and foremost, the fact remains that we cannot restrict our ranks to the true patriots alone. While the war rages, we must make do with the soldiers we have; sometimes we require every soldier we can _get_. That often means the partially educated, the reluctant, the uncertain, the selfish, even the unwilling.” Tarn folded his arm around Mirage’s shoulders. “The purpose of the Decepticon Justice Division is to inspire loyalty in the rank and file by publically illustrating the fate of those who make the ethical mistake of placing their own desires above Megatron’s.” 

Right. Mirage had read the reports. “Traitors. Serial killers. Slavers.” Their demises had been quite gruesome. Still, it was no surprise that Autobot justice conducted quick, clean, humane executions, while Decepticons preferred to torment the accused first. “An example to others who would emulate them.” Mirage couldn’t even say that he didn’t feel those three criminals didn’t deserve everything they’d gotten. Sometimes the Autobots were more merciful than they really ought to be. 

“That’s it exactly,” Tarn replied. “I’m so _glad _to be able to discuss this with you. I’ve been thinking that the greatest challenge of this position is the potential isolation. It’s going to be so very important to me to find out how the rank and file react to our little _lessons_. I do hope you’ll be able to provide me with some feedback going forward?” 

“Of course,” “Citanes” replied, ever the dutiful little Decepticon. Meanwhile, Mirage, the spy, felt torn. An ongoing relationship would be a gold mine of data…but it would require Mirage to remain in his undercover role, and Mirage didn’t want to. An evening in disguise was one thing, but Mirage couldn’t live his _life _like a MTO. 

Primus, but Mirage hated this: the war, the Decepticons, being in Spec Ops, Prowl, the Autobots. 

“Then with that,” Tarn declared, “let us cease this talk of _business_, and turn our attention to more pleasurable entertainments. After all, the Conclave is supposed to be a _celebration._” 

Mirage felt a strange sensation in his chest. He struggled to describe it, having never felt anything like it before. It was like a pressure, but also like a buzzing—like a touch that vibrated deep inside and then vanished when the invisible fingers lifted. It came and went, and Mirage hoped it would stay gone. 

It couldn’t be drugs in the engex. Tarn had drank from the same cup. While it was possible that Tarn was also drugged, and had simply used a substance where he was accustomed to the effects, Mirage doubted that was the case. The elite of Vos had sampled a wide array of substances to stave off boredom, and the buzzing in his chest didn’t feel like any drug Mirage had ever tried before. 

Tarn came to a halt in front of a door in the officers’ quarters. These rooms were much larger than the habs given to the mid-ranking Decepticons, which were tiny—barely enough room for a slab and a desk and an energon cooler—but private. Low ranked mechs like the MTO soldiers got a cot in a barracks hall with seventy-one other mechanisms, and a small box (small enough to fit under a berth) in which to keep all their worldly possessions. Most of the MTOs did not have enough possessions to fill the box. 

Tarn opened the door and held it for Mirage to enter. Mirage took a step inside and gasped. 

For all the Decepticons talked of equality and the elevation of the masses, this room would not have been out of place in Old Vos. A thick, lush carpet covered the floor. Works of art in gilded frames decorated the walls. A holograph unit and two big, oversized couches sat close to the door, along with a full energon service and a stylish table. On the far side of the room, datapads covered a large desk with a multi-level work station. A filigree shelving unit held an impressive library of musical recordings and holovids. 

These living quarters, however luxurious, were still only a single room. An ornamental screen created at least a semblance of privacy, forming a divider between the sleeping area and the rest of the room. Mirage could see that the berth was large enough for three normal-sized mechs, covered in thick plush chamois bedding, and graced with a stand on either side. He wondered if there might also be a private wash station on the other side of the screen. 

“It’s not much,” Tarn said, closing the door behind him, “but you know how it is when we’re at war, what with the constant moving around from location to location. One can only bring the necessities…” 

Mirage remembered the sight of the MTO barracks with their little boxes and guessed that a MTO’s definition of “necessities” was a lot leaner than Tarn’s. Truthfully, though, Mirage rather agreed with Tarn. Making life worth living was a necessity, wasn’t it? Otherwise, what was the point? 

It wasn’t as though his own quarters back in Iacon were all that much different than Tarn’s. Oh, in style, certainly: Mirage tended towards Cyberrenaissance Deco, whereas Tarn was obviously an aficiando of Neo-Gothic Postcrystalism. But in _kind _they were alike. Their belongings weren’t just expensive: they had both _quality _and _class _to make the price tags worthwhile. Not like those tacky nouveau-riche types who threw money around for the thrill of it and ended up with a mountain of pricey junk. 

Yes, Mirage approved. But he had to play the role of the star-struck MTO. He could still stare at Tarn’s possessions, but he couldn’t give the impression of truly _understanding _the value of what he saw. 

“It’s like a hotel,” Mirage breathed. 

“I suggest you think of it as an _extremely _exclusive bar. Members only,” Tarn said teasingly, and Mirage clearly saw him wink under the mask. He moved towards the energon service. “Now…what drink would be my guest’s pleasure?” 

Mirage could think of a number of beverages he hadn’t enjoyed in millennia. The problem was, a Decepticon MTO shouldn’t know the names of any of them. A Decepticon MTO would request something like Bluehammer Fizz, an engex blend that was trendy right now, and generally too pricey for the average MTO’s salary. That was the sort of drink that MTOs would think of when asked to order “something expensive.” Mirage thought the stuff tasted like swill. No, he couldn’t bring himself to ask for that. Tarn probably wouldn’t even have it. 

Instead, Mirage kept himself in character by turning up the illumination on his optics and saying, in a soft, shy voice, “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about good engex. Your collection is so big…I don’t know how to choose.” He wrung his hands. “Maybe you could suggest something you’d think I’d enjoy?” 

“Certainly. Why don’t we have a conversation, and I’ll build you a drink? Tell me about the sorts of flavours you like.” 

Mirage wasn’t expecting this offer. In his glory days, he’d hired staff to mix drinks; he wouldn’t condescend to play a servant’s role for the amusement of guests. Unsure of how Tarn expected him to respond, he played dumb, as fitted his character. “Um…” 

“Sweet or savoury?” 

“Sweet.” 

“Tangy or smooth?” 

“Smooth.” 

As Tarn continued to offer choices, Mirage imagined a particular rare vintage and selected words to suit it, wondering if Tarn would choose the drink he had in mind. 

Tarn selected a glass, and artfully poured the contents of several bottles into a neatly layered drink: pink on the bottom, white in the middle, and glowing blue on top. 

It was not what Mirage had expected. He sipped at it cautiously. 

He tasted a burst of flavour, followed by a gentle bubbling sensation. His swallow concluded with a slow, deep burn in his fuel tanks. The drink was phenomenal. He’d never tasted anything like it. Mirage was not acting when he blurted out, “This is _exquisite_! What is it?” 

Mirage was shocked when Tarn told him the ingredients, though he managed to school his expression into one of dazed wonder instead of surprise. Yes, two of them were rare and expensive, and the third was good quality, if not overly exclusive. The surprise was that only one of them contained anything intoxicating, and that one was only very mildly so. 

Tarn clearly didn’t have an agenda to get the pretty speedster overenergized and then take advantage of him. Mirage felt stunned. It was more than he could say for himself, on past occasions. He’d never forced anyone against their will, nor had he helped himself to anyone unable to protest, but he _had _made use of the fact that engex lowered inhibitions. He’d been thinking about how important it was to keep his head, only to find out that Tarn did not seem interested in tempting him to lose it. 

Primus help him. Mirage found himself wishing the drink had more engex in it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to flirt with a Decepticon while perfectly sober. He also wasn’t sure if the reason was because he didn’t want to, or because with a mech like Tarn, the_ wanting_ was all too easy, and tomorrow, he wouldn’t have the engex to blame. 


	9. Can't Be Wrong

Chapter Nine: Can’t Be Wrong 

Tarn smiled under his mask as he poured himself a drink of his own. Citanes was really quite delightful. 

Of course he might well be a fiction. It would be quite a coincidence if there was a MTO who both looked and sounded like Mirage of Vos. Tarn did not yet have proof beyond this circumstantial evidence, but he was willing to bet that his guest was Mirage in disguise. 

As such, Tarn was well aware that there was a distinction to be drawn between Mirage, the Autobot spy, and Citanes, the character he played. Mirage was not this naïve, excitable MTO; he had extensive experience in all life’s pleasures. 

Yet Tarn couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at Mirage for taking on an alter ego for the purposes of this spy mission. Other Decepticons would take offense at the deception, and call Mirage a liar who misrepresented himself. Tarn, on the other hand, could appreciate the skill involved. He used the exact same abilities to create and maintain the “Tarn” persona, and he knew a talented actor when he saw one. Tarn could enjoy an appealing character, convincingly portrayed. 

The difference between Citanes and Tarn was that Tarn was fully aware that “Citanes” was a character, while Mirage had no reason to suspect that “Tarn” was anything other than a person wearing a mask. As though concealing his identity was all the mask was for. Mirage was probably curious who was underneath that mask. Tarn had no intention of letting him find out what was under either of his masks. 

Fortunately, distracting Mirage should be fun. Tarn’s goal was to seduce both “Citanes” and the Spec Ops officer who played him. He would appeal to both the curious innocent and the nostalgic aristocrat, and have his way with them both. 

“Citanes” giggled when his drink fizzed, while underneath, Mirage was getting his first taste of Vaporex Seltzer in…oh, how long since the bottling plant went up in flames? A million years, at least. 

Tarn talked about the ingredients in the drink: what they were, where they came from, and how to mix them. “Citanes” listened intently, because all this information would be new and fascinating to a naïve MTO. Mirage, on the other hand, was probably bored and playing along to please Tarn. Ah, but he wouldn’t stay bored for long. With every word, Tarn closed in on the precise harmonic frequency of Mirage’s spark. 

It was so much easier without the background noise in the club. No pounding beat, no unfamiliar music, no chattering voices. The song on Tarn’s stereo played softly, smoothly, and it was so familiar that Tarn had no difficulty filtering out its harmonics from those of Mirage’s spark. 

Tarn poked, prodded, watched Mirage’s optics glowing brighter or duller depending on his tone. He could fine-tune swiftly, sometimes before he was even finished speaking the sentence. In a way, it was just like being back in the theatre. His character—“Tarn”—kept talking, playing his role with Citanes, while Damus’s mind was on other things. The major difference was that instead of thinking about stage directions, Damus was thinking about the sound that would put him in control of Mirage’s spark. 

“What would you like to try next?” Tarn inquired. “Something else similar? Or something completely _unique_?” 

With the last word, Mirage’s optics flashed brilliant blue. He coughed, choking on his drink, raising his hand to cover his mouth. 

_There_ . That was the exact tone Tarn needed to bring Mirage to his knees—with pleasure, or with pain, as he chose. 

Citanes swallowed, sipped his drink, swallowed again. “Excuse me. I had a bit of a wheeze in my ventilation system.” 

“Are you feeling better?” Tarn asked in his normal, unenhanced voice. 

“Yes. I don’t know what’s come over me. But it seems to be gone now.” 

“We should sit. Rest, to be certain it doesn’t return.” Tarn strolled over to the larger couch, took a seat, and gestured to the sofas, watching to see which one Citanes would choose. 

Citanes sat down on the opposite end of the couch Tarn was using. Interesting. He wasn’t putting space between them, the way he could have if he’d sat on the opposite couch, but he also wasn’t being overly forward. Tarn would have expected most Autobots to keep their distance—to tease without following through. Meanwhile, the kinds of mechanisms that Darkmount chose for his entourage were usually the kind who’d throw themselves at ranking officers. There were some kinds of spy who’d also do that, but if this was Mirage, he seemed aware that desperation wasn’t a good look on anyone. 

Just as well. Tarn was not interested in common pleasures. This seduction would be more satisfying if Tarn had to earn it. 

“Why don’t you try this?” Tarn asked as he picked up a snifter and decanter on his end table and poured Mirage a shot. A smallone. For a moment, Tarn wondered if the serving looked stingy, but he didn’t top it up. It was important that Mirage not feel that Tarn was trying to ply him with intoxicants. Besides, it was perfectly acceptable to offer a sample first, to see if “Citanes” liked the beverage before filling his cup. 

Tarn hammered home the subtle message that the drink was safe by also pouring a glass for himself from the same decanter. 

Tarn used the pretext of pouring drinks to buy time to think about his next move. It would be hard to get Citanes talking—as a MTO, he wouldn’t have that much to say. The character would have had few life experiences, fewer still that would be of interest to an officer. Mirage would want “Citanes” to sit and listen and look starstruck while Tarn talked. That was part of why the character made such a good cover for a spy. 

But Tarn could use the natural dynamic of the interaction between a MTO and an officer against Mirage. The more Tarn got to talk, the more he could use his vocal talents to seduce Mirage right into his lap. 

If he could charm Citanes into that trancelike state that had made Skids look so pretty…his mouth slack, his eyes dreamy, a trickle of moisture welling over his lower lip…then he could ask if he were Mirage, and Citanes might well confess. 

_ Just what are you going to do if he isn’t? Just because you think you’re so sure. What do you do if you have him splayed out on your lap and he really is just a MTO with an interest in the classics? _

Tarn handed Citanes his drink and wondered if he _cared_. 

Megatron wasn’t here tonight. Tarn certainly couldn’t spend the rest of his life mourning Skids. 

Skids hadn’t loved him anyway. Not _really._

Skids had believed he loved him, but only because of what Tarn had done to him. 

That had been a mistake. Tarn didn’t need…didn’t _want_…to go through another ordeal like whatever he’d had with Skids. Where Skids had thought he loved him, and Tarn had begun to feel something strange for Skids as well, something that wasn’t quite lust and had long ago failed to be vengeance. Something that lay somewhere in limbo between affection and pride in ownership. 

It was all too emotionally exhausting for Tarn to want to do it again. 

No, tonight Tarn wanted a little shallow _fun, _and this speedster could provide it, whether he was Mirage or Citaines or someone else entirely. 

After all, the Decepticon Conclave was supposed to be a good time. 


	10. Must Be Right

Chapter Ten: Must Be Right 

Mirage was really going to have to take it easy on the drinks. His second seemed a lot more intoxicating than his first. 

He felt warm and buoyant, as though he were floating on a soft cloud. He leaned back on Tarn’s sofa and let the Decepticon’s melodious voice wash over him. Mirage was quite content to just sit and listen to Tarn talk about anything and everything. There was no hurry. Sooner or later Tarn would surely get around to talking about something of interest to Autobot High Command. In the meantime… 

Mirage sipped on his drink and was startled by a loud, crass bubbling noise coming from his straw. A second later, he realized he was sucking air. When had he finished the drink? 

Mirage sat up, startled. He realized he was slouched to one side, leaning over the middle of the sofa. The distance between him and Tarn had halved. He wasn’t sure if Tarn had moved closer to him too, or if that was just his imagination. 

“Excuse me,” Mirage stammered, embarrassed. He reminded himself that it wouldn’t be unusual for a rookie like “Citanes” to make such a faux pas as slurping from a cup. Still, the loss of control concerned him. He should have done it deliberately, not unthinkingly. 

“Another?” Tarn inquired, nodding to Mirage’s glass, too polite to draw attention to Citanes’s rudeness. 

“Maybe something lighter,” Mirage suggested. His frame felt nice—a little too nice. He didn’t dare consume any more intoxicants when he was supposed to be working. 

“But there’s hardly any engex in that one,” Tarn said. His puzzlement was clear in his voice. “Or do you mean lighter in flavour?” 

Mirage startled. “May I see the bottle?” 

“Of course.” Tarn politely obliged. 

Mirage turned it around until he could read the label. The beverage had been made by a very exclusive brand, but this particular offering was remarkably low in intoxicants. Anything lighter would be just straight energon. 

Still. Perhaps wise. 

“M-my commander cautioned me,” Mirage said haltingly, pretending that “Citanes” was awkward and embarrassed. “That too many MTOs make fools of themselves with engex. I…I wanted to be sure I didn’t make that kind of mistake at my first Conclave.” 

“Ah. Your commander is correct,” Tarn said smoothly. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with caution. In fact, I also have a selection of limited edition energon blends for occasions when I mustn’t risk intoxication. Would you care to sample one?” 

“Yes, sir!” Mirage agreed eagerly. “Please.” 

Inside his head, though, a disturbing thought pushed its way to the forefront of his mind. 

Citanes might be a plausible innocent, but Mirage had overindulged with the cream of Vosian society, well known for their decadence and extravagance. Mirage knew full well that he ought not to be intoxicated from such a small serving of engex. So why was he feeling so dazed? So relaxed, when he knew that it couldn’t possibly be the fault of the drinks he’d consumed? 

He observed Tarn as the mech rose from the couch, selected three different bottles, placed them in a large ice bucket, and set the bucket in front of Mirage. For all Tarn was clearly a mech of power and taste, he certainly seemed to enjoy sharing and serving his possessions. Mirage was used to situations where the wealthy and powerful gave because they expected something in return. He got the sense that Tarn was different. The act of sharing itself seemed to give him pleasure. 

A spy could make use of that. Provide the audience that Tarn clearly hungered for, and in return, observe Tarn’s every move… 

Assuming, of course, that Mirage could overcome whatever was wrong with him. Why was he in an altered state while Tarn wasn’t? Tarn did not move like a mech suffering from the effects of some sort of intoxicant. His every move was smooth, graceful despite his size and bulk, controlled and precise. 

Mirage couldn’t possibly be getting sick, could he? He would have to make an appointment with Pharma when he returned from this mission. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but tough it out. 

Mirage selected the lightest-tasting energon. Tarn poured two glasses while talking about the brand, their product offerings, their vision. His voice was lilting; lyrical, like a song. Mirage accepted his glass gratefully and sipped its contents. 

Funny. No engex at all. Yet his head spun. 

Tarn took his own drink and settled next to Mirage on the couch. He was still talking, but Mirage wasn’t paying attention. Suddenly it was taking all of Mirage’s energy just to stay awake. He felt so relaxed that it would be easy to slip into slumber. Tarn’s words formed a soothing cadence. Tarn’s frame radiated soft warmth. It would be so easy to incline his head and rest his cheek on Tarn’s shoulder. Not for long. Just for a little rest. Just a moment to let whatever-this-was pass by. 

Would Tarn mind? 

Mirage let his frame sag to the side until his shoulder brushed Tarn’s. 

Tarn continued speaking as though he didn’t even notice Mirage’s touch. As though he were a symphony conductor only partway through the song. 

It would feel so nice to lean against his companion. No more straining to sit upright. Complete and total relaxation. Glorious warmth. The soft purr of Tarn’s engine against his frame. Wouldn’t that feel good? 

Mirage wanted to. But it wasn’t a good idea. 

Or was it? 

_You _ want _to charm him, remember?_

Perhaps touching him was a little forward. On the other hand, Citanes was a rookie, and prone to rookie mistakes. Besides, Mirage didn’t have a prayer of seducing Tarn verbally. The mech would hardly let him get a word in edgewise. 

Mirage gently laid his cheek on Tarn’s shoulder. The tank tracks were surprisingly soft, with a pleasant amount of give. Tarn’s engine thrummed with a rhythm as musical as his voice. Mirage felt himself cocooned in warmth. Tarn’s scent mingled with the flavour of the engex on Mirage’s tongue. 

This was lovely. Still, Mirage held his breath, waiting for Tarn’s reaction. 

Tarn shifted. Mirage felt disappointment, then frustration—but the frustration was a fraction of his usual impatience at having his wiles thwarted. His primary concern was that he’d just had a taste of lovely comfort and now he was going to lose it. 

Until Mirage felt a strong arm wrapping around his back, pulling him gently but firmly against Tarn’s side. 

Mirage’s engine purred. Again, out of his control. His spark soared so high with giddy bliss that he remembered almost too late that he was working, that he had to stay in command. 

Resentment crashed through him like a bombstrike. _Why_? Because Prowl said so? Because the Autobots demanded it? Because this was his fate thanks to an accident of his birth? 

If he’d become an expat, like his neighbours in Vos, he might not be living a life of luxury right now—not unless he managed to find some source of additional income—but with his current savings, he could be living a modest life of _freedom_. He had enough shanix to keep a roof over his head and quality fuel in his tank for the rest of his life if he lived with restraint. Mirage admitted he’d never been particularly good at restraint, but on the other hand, at least he’d have the liberty to do as he pleased. In a situation like this he wouldn’t have to think about bringing intelligence back to the Autobots. He could simply enjoy the experience. 

Perhaps he would do that anyway, and to the Pit with Prowl. What would be the worst thing that could happen? He tried, he struck out. Even Prowl had to admit that Autobot Spec Ops didn’t succeed on every mission. 

“Are you sleepy?” Tarn murmured. 

His hand traced the curve of Mirage’s hip, and suddenly Mirage wasn’t sleepy at all. 

“Not exactly,” Mirage purred. 

“It’s all right,” Tarn said reassuringly. Though his words were tender, they seemed to light a fire in Mirage’s spark. “The Conclave is a big, exciting event. It’s normal for a mech to feel a little run down.” 

Mirage sat up, just a little, just enough to look at Tarn’s optics and flash his sexiest smile. “You don’t seem run down to me, sir.” 

Tarn startled, then laughed. His hand continued to stroke Mirage’s side. “No, I think there’s a few miles left in me yet.” 

“It seems I’m finding my second wind, too,” Mirage teased. He dared to rest his hand on Tarn’s thigh, and smiled when Tarn did not pull away. 


	11. The House of Fire

Chapter 11: The House of Fire 

Mirage trembled, wondering what was wrong with him. A few moments ago he’d been on the verge of slipping into recharge in Tarn’s arms. Now, he was suddenly all revved up and ready to go. He hung on every word that dropped from Tarn’s lips. 

“I like to view my private quarters as an oasis,” Tarn purred, “where one can escape all the tawdry noise of the world outside, and take the opportunity to relax in a place of comfort and taste.” 

Mirage could only nod, staring up at Tarn’s frame. Those delightfully touchable tank tracks. That big, strong torso, with its V-shaped chestplate. The powerful arm curved around his waist. Tarn was quite handsome for a Decepticon. 

Mirage wondered if he should try to get Tarn’s mask off. Perhaps he—or Autobot Spec Ops—might recognize the face beneath it. 

Mirage also wondered if he’d have trouble going through with this seduction if the face under the mask was ugly. 

Perhaps he should seduce Tarn first, and _then _pry the mask off. Tarn would be off-guard after his overload. Mirage could use the pretext of a parting kiss. 

Or maybe Tarn would take the initative to remove it himself. Mirage wouldn’t argue with that. 

He activated the automatic camera in his left optic, ready to record at a moment’s notice. 

“I’m glad,” Tarn continued, “that you were able to find respite in this place as well.” 

“I hadn’t expected to find such luxury in Tesarus,” Mirage murmured. “It’s been astonishing.” 

“Now that you’ve had a rest,” Tarn said, “would you like to go back to the dance?” 

Mirage’s face fell in honest dismay. 

Tarn laughed. “Oh, poor Citanes,” he said. “I’m teasing you.” 

Mirage offered what he hoped was a shy smile. 

“But,” Tarn elaborated, “I must say it’s very flattering to see how much you want to remain in my company. Or is it merely my furniture and fuel that you like?” 

Mirage drew a deep breath into his vents. He was a young MTO with an interest in fine things far above his station. He needed to keep his character in mind and let it inform his words and actions. 

Mirage, the Autobot, was attracted to Tarn because he saw in the mech an equal. Someone who understood and appreciated quality and class. Someone who hadn’t let the war reduce him to the squalor that infested both factions. 

Citanes, the MTO, would be attracted to Tarn because Tarn himself was one of those delicious luxuries far out of an MTO’s league. 

“I, ah,” Mirage said, deliberately stumbling on his words. Citanes would not be as smooth as Mirage. Citanes would be trying to become what Mirage already was, but Citanes would lack the polish to pull it off. “I like all the finer things in life, and, um, I think your furniture and your fuel are merely reflections of their owner.” 

Tarn’s optics squinted in a smile. “My. Aren’t you charming.” His free hand—the one not currently curled over Mirage’s hip—slid up Mirage’s throat to cup his chin. He lifted Mirage’s chin in his palm and turned Mirage’s head first left, then right, as though he were admiring a work of art. 

Mirage felt his fuel pump skip a beat. Heat gathered in his valve. 

_Control_ , Mirage told himself, but he didn’t feel much inclined to listen to his inner voice’s lecture. He was no longer seducing Tarn as a means to an end. He was now seducing him because he _wanted _to, and if Prowl got something out of it, that would be a bonus. It was no longer Mirage’s primary concern. 

“I try,” Mirage whispered, playing the role of the nervous MTO. 

“Do you see something else you’d like to sample tonight?” Tarn said, and though the mask hid his expression, Mirage sensed the reflection of a wicked smile in every word. 

“I’d certainly hate to impose on the generosity of my host,” Mirage replied, but he reached out his hand and stroked his fingers over Tarn’s collar fairing as he spoke. 

“And what about your generosity?” Tarn’s voice dipped low, and Mirage swore he could feel the reverberations of every word against his valve, the way it tingled. 

“How is it generous of me to agree to something I want anyway?” Mirage said, in his best sultry purr. 

“Are you certain?” Tarn’s voice sent Mirage’s frame throbbing with anticipation and need, even as the words themselves seemed to hint at some kind of warning. Once again Mirage sensed danger. Yet the danger added a spice that made Tarn even more alluring—even more intoxicating. 

Mirage folded his arms around Tarn’s neck. Tarn’s powerful arm guided Mirage from his side to his lap. Mirage found himself straddling Tarn, sitting on his lap facing him, as Tarn’s other arm rose to play with the wiring at the base of his neck. Mirage moaned. 

“You might be out of your depth, pretty speedster,” Tarn whispered. 

Mirage was pretty sure he was, and he ought to be more concerned about it. Instead it felt like everything he’d ever wanted. 

“How often do you do this sort of thing?” Tarn inquired, stroking Mirage’s cheek. 

Mirage wondered what the right answer would be. Citanes was supposed to be young, and embroiled in a war for all of his brief life. He wouldn’t have had the time to develop Mirage’s extensive experience. 

Perhaps Tarn was the kind of mech who liked his lovers naïve and innocent. That would track with a mech who’d sought out the company of a young MTO. The problem was that Mirage wasn’t certain he could play that role. It would be obvious that Mirage didn’t have seals on his equipment. Not to mention the fact that Mirage couldn’t relax and enjoy himself if he had to be constantly pretending that he didn’t know how to please a lover, or faking ignorance rather than doing things to increase his own pleasure. It would be better if Citanes had a few notches on his berth. Mirage just hoped Tarn wouldn’t be put off by such an admission. 

Mirage could use his apprehension to bolster his character. A mech like Citanes would be eager for new experiences, and such mechs were vulnerable to being used. Citanes could have been around the block a few times and yet still be awkward and naïve in certain ways. “Um, not often enough to consider myself an expert, exactly…” 

“But often enough to know what you like,” Tarn finished. 

“I’d like to say often enough to help both of us enjoy something we’ll like,” Mirage said daringly. 

“Good,” Tarn said with a purr, stroking Mirage’s cheek. “Very good.” 

“Are you worried about my mileage?” Mirage asked. 

“Not any more,” Tarn replied. “You see, I like my mechs…how shall we say? _Well practiced_.” 

Citanes grinned and teased, “Oh dear. Now I’m worried about having _enough _mileage.” 

“I’ll just remind myself that you’re young and still learning.” 

The way he said it made Mirage think that Tarn himself was older than the MTOs. He might still be constructed cold—plenty of Decepticons were—but he was probably built before the war, or very early into it. That meant that there should be some record of him from before he started calling himself _Tarn_. If the Autobots could figure out his prior identity, they could learn more about him and use that information to predict what he might do next. 

“Oh, I’m a very quick learner,” Mirage teased. Much to his surprise, Tarn’s engine revved very loudly. 

_That turns you on, does it? _

Tarn seemed to be the absolute opposite of Darkmount, who seemed to like them naïve and a little dim. Tarn wanted experience and intelligence. Mirage grinned. Tarn liked to play with fire. 

So why did Mirage feel as though he was the one who was going to get burned? 


	12. A Joke in Sin

Chapter Twelve: A Joke in Sin 

So, little Citanes claimed to be a quick learner. Tarn was willing to bet that he was not as quick as Skids had been. Still, Mirage might offer his own unique charms in the berth. Skids had always been just a little rough around the edges; his restless mind and hunger for knowledge did not lend themselves to patience. Mirage ought to be more refined. 

As well, there would be a very unique pleasure in making Mirage scream for him. Mirage, who had always been too snooty to look twice at little Glitch. 

Tarn had always needed to be so careful so as not to break Skids. With this Autobot spy he could afford to be somewhat more _cavalier_. A wave of dark arousal rippled through him at the thought. He wondered if he could kill with pleasure the way he killed with pain. 

Oh, Mirage. What a way to go. 

Tarn cautioned himself. He’d not yet proven that this pretty speedster really was Mirage in disguise, and it would be most unseemly for him to break an innocent Decepticon. Still. Tarn supposed he could always plant some evidence and claim that Citanes had earned his untimely end. 

But it wouldn’t do for that end to come too soon. Not before Tarn had the opportunity to enjoy everything that “Citanes” had to offer. 

He had the speedster firmly in his grip. He could lull him to sleep or rev him up to the breaking point. It was time for Tarn to ask himself what he wanted. 

Mirage’s fingers stroked the side of Tarn’s mask. Tarn couldn’t feel it through the thick metal that protected his face. “Give me a kiss?” he asked. 

Tarn, taken off guard by Mirage’s arrogance, did not respond. 

Shockingly, Mirage dared to grip the mask and lift it. Tarn felt a tug as the magnetic clamps kept the mask on his face. 

If Skids didn’t rate a kiss, Mirage certainly didn’t. Tarn amped up the power in his voice. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Though he intended to use his words to rev up Mirage’s motor, he couldn’t quite keep his irritation out of his tone. 

Mirage grimaced in pain and drew his hands away, while at the same time his motor roared and his fans blasted hot air from his vents. He squirmed, unable to reconcile his growing arousal with the sudden discomfort lashing his spark. 

Tarn ought to feel guilty. But really, it served Mirage right. How _dare _he ask such a thing? Skids would _never_… 

Tarn tried to rein in his anger by reminding himself that Skids had been his prisoner. Of course Skids had been deferential; Tarn had held his life in his hands. Citanes was a junior soldier, and as such, though Tarn could punish him, it was considered bad form for a Decepticon officer to inflict the death penalty for minor slights. The circumstances were not quite the same. 

Yet Tarn was not mollified. _He_ would never have dared to treat Megatron that way. 

Mirage had overstepped and he deserved to pay a penalty. 

Tarn examined the speedster on his lap, who was now hesitant and confused, utterly bewildered by the experience of feeling powerful arousal and cutting pain simultaneously. 

Ah, Mirage. Always so haughty. 

Tarn grinned as a wicked idea occurred to him. 

“I think you should put your mouth to some other use, little soldier,” he said, tuning his voice into a throaty purr. He spread his legs just a little, just enough to startle Mirage and cause him to balance precariously on Tarn’s lap. Just enough to give Mirage a clue about what he meant. 

Tarn bit down a laugh as Mirage’s optics widened with shock. Yes, he’d figured it out. 

What a treat to imagine stuck-up Mirage down on his knees sucking spike like a cheap buymech. Tarn doubted any of Mirage’s dates would have demanded such a thing of him. They’d have flirted, and hinted, and teased, and Mirage would have taken them up or not as he chose. Mirage would be used to partners who tripped over themselves to earn his favour. Now it was Mirage’s turn to perform for another’s approval. Mirage had likely never been faced with a choice like this during an intimate encounter: to do as he was told or else get out. 

Tarn was secure in the knowledge that Mirage would not want to get out. Not when Prowl had sent him here to spy, and not when the arousal that Tarn had fanned inside him was still burning for release. Mirage would have no choice but to play along. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Tarn asked lightly, adding more fuel to those flames with every word. 

“A-a few times,” Mirage stammered, and Tarn was not sure if he was playing the role of a less experienced MTO, or if he was trying to hide his outrage. Oh, this was delicious. 

Mirage slid off Tarn’s lap. Tarn took advantage of the opportunity to lean back on the couch and spread his knees farther apart. 

Head bowed, optics downcast, Mirage knelt between Tarn’s thighs and placed his hands on the inside of Tarn’s legs. 

Tarn smiled with cruel satisfaction and opened his spike panel. 

Mirage’s lips whispered a soft kiss on the head of Tarn’s spike: a most pleasing apology. Mirage, so eager to kiss, could kiss Tarn in a place of Tarn’s choosing. Mirage’s soft lips thrilled Tarn with the promise of pleasure to come. 

Oh, if Mirage only knew that he was about to service the mech he’d always grimaced at and recoiled from. If only Mirage knew how soon he would be begging for Damus of Tarn to frag him. 

Mirage lifted his gaze to Tarn’s, as though seeking approval. 

Tarn loved the sight of Mirage’s lips curved in an O, just a whisper away from his spike. He could look at that image all day. 

Tarn activated his internal recorder and then purred, “_Do _ continue.” 

Obediently, Mirage took the head of Tarn’s spike into his mouth and lightly sucked it. 

_Primus_ , but Tarn had forgotten how decadent it felt to receive this kind of attention from a lover. 

Mirage bobbed his head, slowly taking him deeper into his mouth. It felt good, though not as good as when Skids had done it. Tarn tried to guess why. Skids had always sucked his spike as though he couldn’t get enough; as though servicing Tarn was his greatest joy in life. Mirage was merely doing his duty. That was a tasty thought, but perhaps not quite so sweet in the performance. 

Well. Tarn could _make _it sweet. 

Wouldn’t Mirage hate himself if he ended up having the hardest overload of his life from being forced to service Tarn in order to get his spying accomplished? 


	13. I'd Love to Love You

Chapter Thirteen: I’d Love to Love You 

It wasn’t as though Mirage had never sucked a spike before. And it wasn’t as though Jazz hadn’t warned him that an Autobot SpecOps agent was expected to use _every _means at his disposal to get his job done, up to and including fragging the enemy. Mirage had come to the Conclave tonight with every intention of doing whatever it took to charm some information out of Decepticon High Command. 

So why did he feel like shareware now? 

Maybe it was because he’d pushed too fast. He’d tried to slip Tarn’s mask off and instead of being seduced, Tarn had clearly been angered instead. His words had felt like a punch in the spark. They’d hurt like a physical blow. And Mirage had now written off any chance of getting a peek beneath the mask. 

But that response had also told Mirage that Tarn had something to hide. 

Mirage, on the wrong foot, had needed to make it up to Tarn—and, eventually, to Prowl. Mirage would just have to get some other secret to bring back to the Aubotots. 

Then Tarn had made a very crude demand. Mirage had needed to act as though his character, Citanes, was so enamoured with Tarn that he didn’t mind going along with Tarn’s suggestion. Mirage, on the other hand, was beginning to lose his taste for his companion. Tarn might have excellent taste in dancing and drinks, but Mirage suspected he was a brute in the berth. Yet if Mirage wanted to get information out of him, he had no choice but to comply. 

Mirage sucked Tarn’s spike and thought, begrudgingly, of how most of his dates went the other way around. 

In Old Vos, as in much of Cybertron, there had been a cultural belief that dominant mechanisms used their spikes and subservient mechanisms had their valves used by their lovers. Mirage much preferred interfacing with his valve, a preference at odds with his role in society. Fortunately, Vosians were known for being sexually adventurous, and it was less unusual for a Vosian noble to favour using his valve than it would be for, say, a Tarnian overseer or Kaonian pit boss. Still, as one of the super-elite, Mirage had a clever solution that would both enhance his social standing and give him the sort of interface he wanted. 

Typically, Mirage made his partners suck him off first. Then, if he judged their performance to be adequate, he offered them access to his valve as a reward for their services. Or, in other words, he began by reminding his partners of their place. Later, he enjoyed the kind of interface he liked best and hid it under a veil of _generosity_. 

Mirage wondered if the reason he felt so resentful right now was because his old trick had been reversed. 

Or maybe it was because sucking Tarn off was _hot _for a reason Mirage didn’t understand. 

Mirage liked receiving a hell of a lot more than he liked giving. _Usually_. There was just something about Tarn that was turning him on in a way he hadn’t imagined possible. He swore that every time he moved his lips his own valve tingled. Every time he sucked, his valve nodes ached. The farther he took Tarn’s spike into his mouth, the hotter he ran and the harder his fans worked to keep his systems cool. He kept shifting his weight, trying to find a comfortable position, but no amount of pressure against his panel was ever enough. Not even when he took one of his hands off Tarn’s leg and used it to massage his panel, right overtop of his valve. 

The whole time, Tarn kept talking. 

Maybe that was the difference. No trick Mirage used could shut the Decepticon up. Tarn kept running his mouth, murmuring empty platitudes: “you’re so good” and “that feels nice.” _Nice_, as if he couldn’t think of any better word. Or else he thought Mirage so utterly average that no better word applied. Mirage wanted to make the bastard scream in overload, if only to teach him a lesson. 

The problem was that Mirage was just so desperately revved up himself. He ran his tongue over the tip of Tarn’s spike and swore he felt moisture pooling in his valve. His right hand clutched at Tarn’s leg to help him keep his balance as he bobbed his head while frantically rubbing his left hand against his valve panel. He wondered if he dared to pop it open. It would feel so good. 

_ If this slagger was angry because you tried to take his mask off to kiss him, how angry do you think he would be to find out that you were fingering yourself while you were blowing him? _

Mirage hadn’t stooped to kneeling before a Decepticon just to get kicked out of the room with no useful information on account of being too frisky to control himself. 

But Primus, did he want something in his valve right now! 

A big toy covered in lubricant. His finger. _Tarn’s _finger. Better yet, Tarn’s spike, and Tarn yelling out all the Decepticon Army’s strategic secrets after Mirage fucked him to overload. 

The fantasy was a bit too much. Mirage whimpered. His fans were running so hot that they ached. His mouth salivated—the better to slick Tarn’s spike—but Mirage wanted that hard, wet spike inside a different part of him. His valve tingled, and Mirage could feel his own lubricants sliding down the inside of his modesty panel. 

“Don’t you look pretty,” Tarn purred, and Mirage felt each word like a caress over his anterior node. 

He took Tarn as deep into his mouth as he dared, trying to suppress his gag reflex, wishing the Decepticon would just _come already _so hopefully they could get on to the second movement of this little symphony. Which hopefully would involve Mirage getting his valve fingered. He certainly wasn’t going to get oral—not from a mech who wouldn’t take off his mask for a kiss—but if he could get a few fingers into his aching little channel, that would be good enough. 

Mirage swallowed around Tarn’s spike and moaned. 

“Enough.” 

_What?_

Mirage couldn’t believe it. He’d been doing his best to make this good for Tarn, to get the Con off, and suddenly—without even overloading—this bastard decided he’d had his fill? Meanwhile, Mirage was so excited that he felt as though his valve panel might involuntarily pop open at every second. 

Mirage froze in mid stroke and looked up at Tarn. He tried to look cute, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. Jazz was a natural charmer, Getaway a skilled one, and Mirage…well. To an extent Mirage could hide his emotions, enough to act as a mech of his class and station was expected to act. He had a bit more difficulty acting roles that went contrary to his nature. Mirage of Vos would not tolerate such a snub, so it was hard for him to play Citanes of Ibex meekly accepting it. 

Tarn looked down at him and burst out laughing. 

Mirage felt his fuel tank sink. Suddenly he felt like a idiot, kneeling here with the Decepticon’s spike between his lips, and all of it for nothing. 

“My, how fierce you look,” Tarn teased. 

And _still _his whole valve pulsed with every word, in a way that would have felt phenomenal if only there’d been something hard and firm inside him, but as it was, all he could do was shudder as his calipers clenched again and again on nothingness. 

He tried to hide his sobs. He thought he succeeded. Tarn’s spike slid from his mouth, still hard and firm and glistening with the moisture Mirage had left on it. 

“Come,” Tarn said softly, curling his finger in a beckoning motion. 

“Sir?” Mirage climbed to his feet, staggered, and braced himself on Tarn’s leg for support. A moment later he feared the Decepticon would punish him for his presumption. 

Tarn leaned forward, caught him in his powerful arms, and pulled Mirage into his lap. 

“Look at you,” Tarn breathed, resting his hand in front of Mirage’s fans. “Look how revved up you are.” 

“It’s you,” Mirage whispered, because it was true. “There’s something about you that just makes me want to…” 

_Frag_ . But he couldn’t be so crude. Tarn didn’t care for crude. 

_Make love _ was so fanciful, so silly. 

_Join your frame with mine_ , yes, that was a good Vosian sentiment, but was it too ornate to be plausible coming from Citanes? 

“That just makes me _want_,” Mirage admitted. 

“Is this what you want?” Tarn inquired with mock innocence as he reached down and flicked Mirage’s valve panel. It sprang open eagerly at the slightest touch. 

Mirage’s mouth watered. He barely swallowed in time. “Is that wrong?” 

“That I have a lapful of sweet and eager speedster? What could be wrong about that?” 

Mirage moaned. He could feel lubricant sliding, hot and wet, down his inner thighs. He could feel Tarn’s spike pressing against the side of his leg, so close to the lubricant. “You didn’t overload…” 

“No,” Tarn whispered. “I think it would be much nicer to overload inside your valve.” His optics blazed, almost as hot as Mirage’s valve. “Don’t you?” 

Mirage sobbed. With relief. With anticipation. With fear, at finding himself on a razor’s edge where pleasure flirted so closely with destruction. 


	14. Love You in the Dark

Chapter Fourteen: Love You in the Dark 

Tarn couldn’t go through with this. 

And a fine time to realize it, when Mirage was rubbing his slippery little node all over the side of Tarn’s wet spike and gasping with each stroke. All Mirage needed to do would be to lift his hips a little more and Tarn would be inside him. 

Tarn was no longer worried about the mechanics of it. Skids had taught him well. It turned out that a lap full of Mirage was not really all that different from a lap full of Skids. In fact, Tarn could probably sit still and leave all the work to Mirage, who was clearly champing at the bit to take a ride on Tarn’s spike. 

No, it was the principle of the thing that had Tarn worried. He felt guilty. He was _cheating_. He just wasn’t sure who he was cheating on: Megatron, or Skids? 

Megatron was with Starscream now. Megatron spiked whoever he pleased. If Tarn wanted to be like Megatron, he should do the same. 

Tarn had already gone through this with Skids. Megatron spiked Tarn, and Tarn spiked Skids, and that was the natural order of things. 

He wasn’t cheating on Megatron if he didn’t use his valve. 

And Skids… 

Skids was lost to him. It wasn’t cheating when a relationship was over. It didn’t matter that Tarn hadn’t wanted to let Skids go. Tarn didn’t have to suffer alone for the rest of his life just because he hadn’t done the dumping. 

Besides, right now, if he wanted to stop Mirage, he would have to do something about it quickly. He’d reduced the elitist Outlier to a lust-blinded beast, desperate to rut. Mirage’s mind was now filled with nothing save a desperate need to be fucked. 

Tarn reminded himself that he was in no danger of falling in love with a conceited prig like Mirage. Or a no-account MTO like Citanes, on the off chance this _wasn’t _Mirage. Megatron, Skids…nothing good came of _love_. 

This was merely _amusement._

Damus of Tarn was more than due a little bit of that. 

Mirage wriggled. Tarn wondered what was taking so long. A moment later, he guessed it. He’d punished Mirage with his Voice for being arrogant enough to try to remove his mask. He’d demanded Mirage use his mouth on his spike. Mirage was obviously afraid that initiating interface would result in similar punishment. But he was wound up so tightly he was half-mad with lust, and there was Tarn’s spike, right between the lips of his valve…and he _didn’t dare _try to take it. Not without Tarn granting permission. Because if he did, he’d find himself in pain again, or worse—being thrown out into the corridor without getting the interface he craved so badly. 

Mirage must be in absolute _agony _right now. That delightful thought brought a broad grin to Tarn’s lips. He’d been torturing the haughty little speedster without even knowing it. 

Tarn’s spike ached at the thought. Sliding the tip through Mirage’s valve lips, smearing all that lubricant around, basking in the heat and wetness….all of that was enjoyable, yes, but it was time to finish with the appetizers and begin the main course. 

“Sit,” Tarn purred, his voice a low growl. “Feel me inside you.” 

“Thank you,” Mirage sobbed as he finally, _finally _slaked his thirst. Tarn felt his spike sinking into Mirage’s hot, snug heat. “Oh…thank you…sir…thank…” A moan strangled his words. 

For all that Mirage had a habit of taking it in the valve, he certainly felt tight. Tarn pumped his hips, driving his spike deeper inside. He could feel Mirage’s channel slowly parting as Tarn’s spike head advanced deeper into this as yet unknown territory. Mirage panted in anticipation, and Tarn knew it wouldn’t be long before he fully occupied Mirage’s valve. 

Tarn swallowed and dared to rest his Voice. Mirage was so hot right now that hopefully the aphrodisiac effect would sustain itself for a while, now that he had a nice hard spike inside him. Tarn could take the opportunity to emit a few low moans of his own. 

Mirage just looked so pretty taking his spike. 

Skids had been handsome, yes, but Mirage was strikingly beautiful, far out of Damus’s league even if he’d still had his hands and face. Tarn wanted to laugh. He’d joined the Decepticons out of lofty beliefs in freedom and equality; instead, he’d been granted everything his spark had ever desired: power, respect, sex, a vital role in the war effort and a rank high enough to achieve it…and Megatron’s warm regard. 

He would not feel guilty thinking of Megatron now. Instead he would fuck this Autobot as a Decepticon should, and do Megatron proud. 

Tarn hooked his hands under Mirage’s arms and stood up. Mirage, startled, clung to him, wrapping his legs around Tarn’s waist, throwing his arms over Tarn’s shoulders. Tarn realized that his spike was still inside Mirage’s hungry valve. 

That thought almost made him overload right then and there. But it would ruin the fun if he did. 

So he turned around, lowered Mirage to the couch, and whispered, “Let go.” 

Mirage cringed. “But…Sir, please! Please don’t stop, please!” 

“I said, let _go_.” 

Mirage wept. Freely, and without shame. “Why?” he wailed, but he obeyed. 

“So I can fuck you _properly_,” Tarn said. He, too, had no shame. He laced his Voice with dulcet tones that brought Mirage to overload, even as he pulled his spike out of Mirage’s valve. 

# 

Mirage didn’t understand what was happening to him. 

He was overloading, and overloading _hard_, even though Tarn’s spike had left his valve. Mirage’s entire frame ached with need. He wanted to beg for Tarn to put his spike back in. He thought he’d scream if he didn’t feel Tarn stretching him wide again soon. 

He wanted Tarn so badly that it _hurt._

Yet his body convulsed in pleasure anyway. Mirage felt helpless to do anything but lie here and overload and howl in insensate desire and ecstasy. 

The small scrap of sanity left to him wondered if this was what had happened to Skids. 

Mirage suddenly felt a tiny bit of empathy for Skids, who’d returned to Iacon a shattered shell of his former self. Mirage had told himself rather smugly that Skids, the golden child of the Outliers Academy, must not have been as strong as he had let on. Skids’s cleverness had been nothing but gilt paint on a flimsy psyche. 

Now Mirage wondered if he could have survived all those centuries with Tarn. If _anyone _could. 

Primus, did Tarn do this to his fellow _Decepticons_? Was this how Tarn treated _everyone_? Or had he seen through Mirage’s disguise? Was this a punishment for Mirage’s deceit? 

Mirage checked that his recorders were still working. They were. Perhaps playing back his memories would help him—or Jazz or Prowl or whoever—figure out what kind of grip Tarn took on his associates. 

Assuming Mirage survived long enough to make it back. He felt as though dying of sexual pleasure was suddenly a very real possibility. 

And he hated that part of him that wanted more of it, regardless. 


	15. The House of the Night

Chapter Fifteen: The House of the Night 

There had been dangers in the decadent towers of Old Vos long before the war. Old Vos had been a place where luxury was common but trust was rare. Mirage hadn’t lived this long by being a fool. Those survival instincts were still hard at work, somewhere underneath the lust-fog clouding his mind. 

Mirage gulped air into his vents. His overload had finally relented, leaving his whole frame aching. His empty valve throbbed. His head spun. His fans pulsed with exhaustion, but he dared not slow them, not the way his body was overheating. He felt that he could do nothing but lie on Tarn’s couch and beg to be fucked. 

Because, Primus help him, he still wanted interface, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. 

“Sir,” he babbled. “Tarn. I need you. Please. Have mercy.” 

“You’ve been such a good mech,” Tarn purred. Strong hands took hold of Mirage’s frame, guiding him into position. “But if you want to interface, you’ll need to get your legs on the floor.” 

Mirage didn’t argue. 

“Knees under you…yes, that’s good.” 

Mirage struggled to kneel upright. He was still facing the couch. He propped himself up with his arms. 

“Oh, no need of that,” Tarn murmured. He took hold of Mirage’s left arm, lifted it, bent the elbow and lowered it down again. “Much better this way.” 

Mirage followed suit with his right arm. He was now on his knees, facing the back of the couch, but both arms from elbow to wrist were pressed against the seat of the couch. It was an odd position that required him to lift his aft up into the air and… 

_Oh._

Mirage burned. With shame or lust, he did not know. He liked to ride his partners, or lie back and let them pleasure him. He took spike, yes, but he’d always demanded that his partners pay him their respects, before, during, and after. He had never imagined himself on all fours, being mounted from behind like a beast in heat. 

Yet he already knew he was going to submit. He needed interface too much to refuse. 

“What a pretty view,” Tarn commented, stroking the curve of Mirage’s aft. 

Mirage had a terrible feeling that he was in danger of drowning. Before he took a deep breath, inhaled water, and liked it, he had one last chance to try to save himself. 

It had taken Skids centuries to escape Tarn’s grasp. Brilliant, clever, daring Skids. Mirage had neither Skids’s genius nor his physical prowess. Mirage had only his invisibility and… 

And if he turned invisible, he wouldn’t get the frag he so desperately craved. 

Mirage felt something firm between the hot, wet lips of his valve. He leaned backwards, chasing pleasure and pressure. He felt something sliding into his valve. Delectable, firm…but far too small. 

_Tarn’s finger._

Tarn was playing with him. Mirage moaned and Tarn chuckled, curving his finger, playing with Mirage’s nodes. 

His valve felt as though it were burning. His fuel pump pounded far too quickly in his chest. His knees would barely hold his weight, and he had to lean heavily on the couch for support. It wasn’t fun being this turned on. It was painful and frightening. 

He had to have been drugged! 

His instincts suddenly cut through the fog in his mind like a beacon. 

_Drugs._

Mirage had an idea, and only seconds in which to put it into practice. 

Tarn was still teasing him, sliding his finger in and out of Mirage’s hungry valve. Any moment now, Tarn would relent and fill Mirage’s valve with his spike. Once Tarn started fragging him, Mirage would need both arms braced on the couch to keep his balance when the big Decepticon began thrusting. 

But for now, Tarn’s attention was on Mirage’s aft and valve, and Mirage could move his hands and arms just enough to make a single attempt at counteracting whatever Tarn had done to him. 

So why was it so hard to move? Mirage’s body felt sluggish, reluctant. It was as though his frame didn’t care what happened next so long as it got fragged now. 

Mirage was not certain if he was afraid of Tarn catching him or if he was afraid of his own second thoughts—the voices in his head whispering how good it would feel to just enjoy the interface, and let the dice fall where they may. Yes, part of him wanted to let go. But another part of him told him that he hadn’t lived this long by being stupid. 

Mirage reached into his subspace. Pulled out an ampoule of systems accelerant in his left hand. Bent his right wrist back, cracked open the ampoule and jabbed the needle into the fuel line exposed in his wrist joint. He squeezed the capsule… 

“Poor Citanes. I’ve been cruel, haven’t I?” Tarn slid his finger out of Mirage’s valve. “It’s your own fault, you know. You shouldn’t be so much fun to tease.” 

Quickly, Mirage pulled the ampoule free and returned the spent casing to his subspace. He knew he hadn’t gotten all of the drug into his systems. He just had to hope the dose was big enough. 

He bent his right wrist forward, willing his self-repair to heal the hole quickly. The last thing he needed was spilled energon on Tarn’s couch and Tarn wondering where it had come from. Mirage couldn’t even pass off the ampoule as a recreational substance. Darkmount might not have questioned an MTO who wanted to do drugs and frag, but the head of an organization designed to keep other Decepticons in line would certainly object to the use of chemicals that could render a mech unfit for battle. 

Tarn’s hands closed around Mirage’s hips. Mirage forced himself to make some whimpering and mewling noises. Let Tarn think he was already incoherent with lust. 

It wasn’t difficult. In fact, Mirage was ashamed by how easy it was, and how little actual acting was required. 

When Tarn’s spike breached his valve, Mirage threw back his head and cried out his welcome as the last shreds of conscious thoughts burned away in the fires of his lust. 

Mirage felt like a roulette ball, spinning wildly around a wheel. All the forces were already in play, he thought as he arched his spinal strut and leaned back into Tarn’s pumping hips. Where the ball would land was out of his hands now. All he could do was enjoy the ride. 


End file.
